


The Good

by Shahqulu



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Friendship/Love, Short, can be anything you want really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 22:37:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10886340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shahqulu/pseuds/Shahqulu
Summary: Short.Widowmaker grows weak.Amelie stirs.





	The Good

He holds her hand.

Widowmaker does not know why he does this.

Sometimes he just reaches out, clawed hand dragging along the back of her hand, pulling it towards him. Normally and always, he looks like he is waiting for the rejection. 

But today he does not look like he expects rejection at all.

Sometimes she tugs away and glares, reminding him that he is a killer. He is above needing comfort. 

This was not one of those times. But he is obviously not seeking comfort for himself.

The op went bad. 

For her.

Her own mine. Stupid. 

The pain and nausea is deserved. She does not show weakness. But the pain clings and she’s left floating in her own head as she tries to ride it out in the helicopter.

Widowmaker wants to be angry with how tactile Reaper is when he perceives that they are safe. How he reaches out to remind himself that he is ‘human’ beneath the smoke. 

She inhales and rides another wave of nausea, and must speak up when his claw drags from her palm to her wrist, slowly going higher, “Stop.”

He does. 

He slides back to her palm, claws gentled in her grasp as he squeezes once. Barely there pressure. Tentatively she feels her fingers curl, lacquered nails tapping against the cold steel of his glove. 

Fitting perfectly…

Widowmaker grows weak.

She feels his humanity potently. The rumble of his smoke curling around the cabin of the chopper clogs the air. But she has never choked on his fog. It has never filled her lungs to bursting.

Not like her venom mine…

Amelie stirs.

Reaper… must feel something shift in her, because that hand travels again to her shoulder casually, slides along her back to the opposite shoulder and pulls her in. She feels her hair catch between the wall and his bicep. Tugging at hairs.

Amelie does not mind.

She leans into him.

Reaper speaks, “Tell me a story.”

Amelie swallows and feels warm as she smiles into his padded shoulder, “… Did I ever tell you about the time I forgot to turn the stove off in the rec room?”

As she speaks he tilts his head into hers.

She barely feels the poison in her veins.

His chuckles keep the nausea at bay.


End file.
